The Mysterious Caravan

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Let’s take them to Chief Collig,” Joe suggested.

  “How about sending a copy to Interpol?” Frank said. “If this airline-ticket racket is spread all over the world, Interpol might have something on our friend Scott.”

  “An excellent thought,” Mr. Hardy agreed.

  As they started to send the information out, Mrs. Hardy asked, “Fenton, where did Gertrude go?”

  “She was here a minute ago. There she is, outside!”

  “What is she looking at in the gutter?” Frank wondered.

  Gertrude Hardy was bent down, tugging at something in the wet snow with her bare hands. The boys ran out to question her.

  “Aunty, what’s going on?” Joe asked.

  “Humph!” she replied, straightening up. “You think you’re the only ones who know how to look for clues?”

  Joe winked at his brother and said, “Of course not. What have you got there?”

  She held up what appeared to be a letter. It was soaked and crumbled from lying in the wet snow.

  “This could have fallen from that scoundrel’s pocket,” Aunt Gertrude declared. “You spun him around like a pinwheel, Joe.”

  “All right, let’s bring it inside to dry,” Frank said. “And thanks for helping us.”

  Once indoors, Joe spread the soggy paper on the drainboard in the kitchen. The words, written in ink, were smudged and barely legible.

  Aunt Gertrude went upstairs and returned minutes later with her hair dryer. She plugged it in and soon had warm air blowing on the mysterious letter.

  “Maybe it’s somebody’s shopping list,” Joe quipped.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Aunt Gertrude retorted tartly. “Fenton, come here and look at this! That’s no shopping list at all!”

  Mr. Hardy, who had been busy dispatching the information to Interpol and to the French company, came into the kitchen to examine his sister’s find.

  “There, it’s showing up more clearly now,” he said. “Joe, we need a magnifying glass, the powerful one you keep in your desk.”

  Joe raced up the stairs, two at a time, and returned with the lens. He bent over to study the writing and his face grew beet red.

  “It’s—it is a clue, Aunt Gertrude!” he exclaimed.

  “Then read it to us.”

  Joe sucked in his breath. “I can’t make out all the words, only a few. They say, ‘Get mask…us…and…will knock off Fenton Hardy.’”

  CHAPTER X

  A Muddy Race

  “YOU know what this means?” Frank asked. “Dad’s enemies and ours have gotten together somehow.”

  “You’re right,” Mr. Hardy said. “They’re working together and are twice as strong now.”

  The boys felt sheepish when they complimented Aunt Gertrude on her good piece of detective work.

  “We Hardys have to stick together,” she replied with a coy smile. “I hope it helps you solve your case.”

  “Aunt Gertrude, you’re something!” Joe said. “We’re sorry we took it so lightly.”

  The next morning they called the foundry. “Is the job ready?” Joe asked.

  “Yes. It turned out fine,” Mr. Krusinsky replied. “Come and get it any time.”

  Another four inches of snow had fallen during the night, but since then the temperature had risen above freezing, and the roads were covered with a sloshy, slippery mess. With Frank at the wheel, they drove toward the foundry.

  “I hope our scheme works,” Joe said as they sped out into the open country. “We’ll give up the duplicate mask for William and continue to study the original, if at all possible.”

  “Right,” his brother said. “This investigation is a long way from being finished. Do you suppose we can catch the kidnappers?”

  “It’s going to be risky. But we’re duty-bound to report it to the police.”

  “If we could only spring a trap and nail the whole gang!” Frank said.

  They drove through farmland. Corn had been planted on both sides of the highway the summer before and the stubble poked through the fresh covering of snow. The boys had been watching the road behind them for possible spies, but it had been clear of traffic for several minutes. All at once, however, a red Ford sedan, traveling at high speed, pulled up close.

  “I wish that guy would stop tailgating,” Frank said. “If I had to brake suddenly, he’d climb right up my back!”

  He drove as far to the right as he could to let the sedan pass. It did, but instead of streaking off, it slowed in front of them. When Frank tried to overtake the Ford, he was blocked!

  “What’s the matter with that joker?” Joe asked.

  Just then another car appeared, as if from nowhere, and positioned itself behind them. They were boxed in!

  “We’re in trouble, Joe,” Frank said. “Did you get a look at these goons?”

  The two men in the rear car wore ski masks pulled down over their faces, as did the driver in front. Their heads were covered except for eye slits and a mouth hole.

  Frank tried again to pass the Ford, but it moved out to the center of the highway and their bumpers banged. The Hardys were sandwiched in tighter than ever, and their tormentors brought them almost to a halt.

  “They want us to stop,” Joe said.

  “Not on your life! I’m going to make a break for it!” Frank declared. They had come to a place where only a shallow ditch dropped off on the left side of the road. Frank watched for oncoming traffic. Now he had a chance!

  Turning the wheel sharply and flooring the gas pedal, he broke out of the tight formation. Their right fender crumpled for a split second with a grinding crunch, but the car broke free!

  Frank crossed the road, drove down into the ditch, and up the other side. “Look back, Joe. What are they doing?” he asked.

  “Coming after us!”

  “I think we can shake them off.”

  The soft snow on the muddy field in front of them made driving treacherous. Frank drove in a tight semicircle, hoping to regain the highway and speed back to Bayport. Joe saw the trailing cars falling back.

  “We’ve got it made!” he exulted.

  Frank fantailed on the mucky topsoil and headed at full speed for the road. The rear wheels kicked up a rooster tail of snow and mud, and the motor growled as he urged every bit of horsepower from it.

  But then—slam!

  About a hundred yards from the side of the highway, the car stopped dead in its tracks.

  “What happened?” Joe asked.

  “Must have been a rock hidden by the snow,” Frank said. “We’re high centered!”

  “Look, they’re gaining on us!” Joe said. “The only thing left to do is to stand and fight.”

  The boys leaped from the car and got behind it while their pursuers raced up.

  “If they hit the car, get ready to jump!” Frank told his brother.

  The two other vehicles, however, slowed to a stop and the three men stepped onto the snow. They approached the Hardys, who stood poised for the attack. Besides being good boxers, they excelled in karate.

  “We don’t have the mask you’re looking for!” Joe said hotly.

  “We’ll see for ourselves,” one of the men replied. After searching the car in vain, their leader said, “We could drop you both in the snow right now, if we wanted to.”

  “Why don’t you try?” Frank said.

  “No. We don’t want to hurt you. We want you to take a message back to your old man. Tell him to lay off his case! He’s not dealing with a bunch of stumblebums this time!”

  “So, what if he doesn’t?” Joe demanded.

  “That might just be the end of Fenton Hardy!” The men chuckled at the boys’ predicament and drove away.

  “Now what?” Joe asked.

  “Here, put your shoulder to the back of the car.”

  The boys pushed and shoved, to no avail. The automobile was stuck tight.

  “We’ll have to go for help,” Frank said. “There’s a farmhouse on that ridge over the
re.”

  The brothers trudged across the field, past out-buildings and sheds, and knocked on the farmhouse door. A gray-haired man opened it. Frank introduced himself and his brother and said, “Can you help us, please? We’re stuck in your field and can’t get out.”

  “I saw them cars a while ago,” the farmer said. “What was that, some fraternity initiation?”

  “Nothing like that,” Joe replied.

  “Well, whatever it was, it was plumb crazy!”

  “We’re high-centered on a rock, sir,” Joe said.

  “I just ought to let you sit,” the farmer grumbled. “Where’d this nonsense get you? Into trouble, that’s where!”

  “Perhaps we could use your tractor,” Joe pleaded.

  “It ain’t working.”

  “Do you have a horse?”

  “Yes. I got a horse. Two of ‘em.”

  “Could we have them pull the car out?” Frank asked. “We’d be glad to pay you.”

  “I wouldn’t take no money from no kids. Okay. I’ll get the horses. But next time you’re fooling around with your friends, don’t play tag in my fields!”

  The farmer put on boots and coat, and the Hardys followed him into the barn, redolent of hay and horses. The animals nickered and tossed their heads.

  “Quiet! Easy there!” the man said.

  Frank and Joe patted the horses while the farmer led them out of the barn. He harnessed the animals to a whiffletree and said to the boys, “You know how to handle horses?”

  “Yes. We’ve done it before,” Frank said.

  “Okay. Take them and pull your car off the rock, then bring them back to the barn.”

  “You’re very kind,” Joe said. “Thanks for helping us.”

  The farmer replied with a grunt, and he went back into the house.

  Frank and Joe walked the animals across the field, then hitched them to the front of the car. Holding the reins, Frank said, “Giddap, there, fellows. Pull!”

  The horses strained for a few seconds. With a scraping noise the underside of the chassis came free of the stone. Joe drove the car to the highway, while Frank took the horses back to the barn. After unharnessing them, he led them into their stalls. “Thanks, old boys.”

  When they arrived at the foundry, Krusinsky greeted them cordially. “Well, here you are,” he said, showing them the two masks on his desk. “Can you tell ‘em apart?”

  “That’s a great job!” Frank exclaimed. “I think you’d better tell us which is which.”

  The foundry man pointed to the original, then wrapped them up.

  “How much do we owe you for this?” Joe asked.

  Alex Krusinsky smiled. “Your dad said he’d take care of it later. Give him my regards. By the way, your mother has been trying to get you on the phone. She said you should have been here half an hour ago.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “May I use your phone?”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Frank dialed the number and Mrs. Hardy answered. Her voice sounded nervous and she spoke fast. “Frank, they telephoned!”

  “The kidnappers?”

  “Yes. They left instructions. Hurry home as fast as you can!”

  CHAPTER XI

  Chet the Genius

  GRABBING the package, the boys raced outside. Off they went toward Bayport, both looking grim and wondering what instructions the kidnappers had given.

  They found Mrs. Hardy and Aunt Gertrude in the living room.

  “What did they say, Mother?” Frank asked.

  Mrs. Hardy picked up a piece of paper from an end table. “I made the notes right here,” she said. “The kidnappers will meet you at two o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind Mary’s Quick Stop.”

  “The little hamburger place on the Shore Road?” Joe asked.

  “That’s right. They have William, and they warned us not to notify the police.”

  “But we’ll have to,” Frank said.

  “It’s pretty woodsy out there,” Joe added. “Good cover for a possible ambush.”

  Joe returned the masks to the Hardys’ safe while Frank phoned police headquarters. Officer Kennedy answered.

  “I don’t know you, do I?” Frank asked.

  The man replied that he had been on the force only three months. The desk lieutenant had been called away momentarily. What was it that Frank wanted?

  “Is Chief Collig there?” Frank asked.

  “No. Can I give him a message?”

  “All right,” Frank said, and he gave the rookie details of the kidnappers’ phone call.

  The boys paced about the house restlessly and only nibbled at their lunch. Mr. Hardy was out of town and would not return until later, so they could not consult with him.

  “Listen, Joe,” Frank said finally. “Let’s work on the mask and compare the lines with the maps I got from the library.”

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when the telephone rang. It was Callie Shaw. “Iola and I can’t get that spooky mask out of our minds,” she said. “Can we help you any more?”

  Joe chuckled. “You mean you want to come over?”

  “Well—”

  “Sure. We’d like to see you. Something’s really brewing. We’ll tell you when you get here.”

  The girls arrived in the Shaw family car, and when Frank told them about the kidnappers’ plan their eyes danced with excitement.

  “Oh, that’ll be so dangerous!” Iola said. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  “Dad will be back by that time,” Joe said. “Besides, the Bayport police probably will have the place staked out. When the crooks walk into the trap, snap! We’ve got ‘em!”

  “Joe’s an optimist,” Frank said, smiling. “It might not be all that easy.”

  After laying the work out on the dining-room table, Callie and Iola made rubbings of the mask, using the original. Then they inked in the lines of the face and beard.

  “Among all these squiggles,” Callie said, “might lie the secret.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping for,” Frank said.

  The four young people studied, compared, and repeated their efforts time and again. Finally Joe said, “I’m getting cross-eyed from all this.” He sat back wearily, as his mother walked over.

  “You need some fresh air,” she said.

  “Me, too,” Frank muttered.

  “Why don’t you go ice-skating on Iola’s pond for a while? You just can’t sit around fidgeting until two o’clock in the morning.”

  The girls agreed and pulled Frank and Joe out of their seats. While Frank returned the mask to the safe, Joe gathered up the maps and tracings and put them into a briefcase. “Let’s take them with us,” he said. “Maybe we can work on them later at your house, Iola.”

  “I’ll chauffeur you,” Callie offered. “You boys can relax and rest your brains.”

  When they arrived at the Morton farm, Chet was at the kitchen table, finishing a late lunch.

  “I have some great news!” he said. “And some bad news, too.”

  “Well, out with it!” Joe said.

  “The good news is that school will be closed for another two weeks at least. Just heard it on the radio.”

  “How come?”

  “The steam boiler broke down. It has to be replaced and they can’t get a new one right away.”

  “I would say that’s bad news,” Frank said.

  “Oh, no. The bad news is that we’ll have to make up the lost time at the end of the year.”

  “That sounds logical,” Callie commented.

  “But it’ll be almost summer by then,” Chet protested. “Sun shining, birds singing—”

  Mrs. Morton interrupted Chet’s reverie by asking if the young people wanted some hot chocolate to fortify themselves. While they drank it, they told Chet their latest news.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I hope everything goes all right! You know, sometimes kidnappers kill their victims!”

&nbs
p; “Don’t even think that,” Frank said.

  When they were finished, the young people took their skates and walked out behind the barn.

  “You were right,” Joe told Iola. “It’s like a mirror.”

  While Callie and Iola donned their skates, the boys collected some firewood and soon had a bonfire burning on a knoll beside the pond.

  “Now we won’t freeze to death,” Frank said as he put on his skates to join the others. They glided over the ice gracefully, doing figure eights and whizzing about the pond arm in arm. After a while they went to the fire to warm their cold hands and feet.

  “I can’t help thinking about William,” Frank said. “Here we are, having a good time. I wonder what he’s doing right now?”

  “You’ll have him back soon,” Callie said kindly. “Worrying won’t do you any good.”

  After half an hour of skating, Chet said, “Who’s for snap the whip?”

  The girls were given first chance at the end of the whip. Iola was to start. The whip snapped her at high speed, and she sailed around the edge of the pond, screaming in delight. Callie followed. She nearly lost her balance, but remained on her feet to enjoy the ride.

  With rotund Chet anchoring the end of the line, Frank and Joe spun away like cannon shots, their friends cheering them on.

  When it was Chet’s turn, the five skated fast. Then Frank anchored the line. Chet spun off at the end at terrific speed, and somehow lost his balance. His feet went out from under him and he landed on his back, his head hitting the hard ice.

  Callie and Iola screamed and raced to the supine boy. Chet was stunned momentarily and did not move, and Frank put a hand under his shoulder to lift his head from the ice. At the same time Joe felt the back of Chet’s head through the yellow skating cap.

  “He’s got quite a bump,” Joe said. “Iola, will you bring a handful of snow?”

  The girl skated to the edge of the pond and returned with the snow, which Joe applied to the contusion. Then they slid Chet carefully across the pond and carried him up gingerly beside the bonfire. There his sister rubbed more snow in his face and his eyes flickered open.

  “Who—who turned out the light?”

  “You got kayoed,” Joe said.

  “Ow!” Chet winced. He tested his muscles. Everything seemed all right with the exception of the bang on his head.